After  the  Day 


Raine  Bennett 

UC-NRLF 


273    MSS 


GIFT   OF 
I  ^  o  "7 . 


AFTER   THE    DAY 


After  the  Day 

A  Collection  of 
Post- War  Impressions 


By 

Raine  Bennett 

With  an  Introduction  by 

George  Douglas 

Literary  Editor  of  the  San  Francisco  Chronicle 


Boston 

The  Stratford  Co.,  Publishers 
1920 


cje^-i^  *l,  l*\o  7. 

Copyright   1920 

The  STRATFORD  CO.,  Publishers 
Boston,   Mass. 


The  Alpine  Press,  Boston,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 


Dedication 

OMEMORIED  Thebes!    Behold  what  frac 
tured  pile 

Uprears  its  crumbling  arches  to  the  sky! 
Around  forgotten  plinths  gaunt  shadows  lie 
Traced  by  the  gloaming  moon.    A  columned  aisle 
Remains,  bereft  of  frieze  and  peristyle  — 

All  else  is  gone.  Through  wild  mimosas  sigh 
The  vagrant  winds,  and  far,  an  ibis  cry 
Awakes  the  sinuous  liquescent  Nile. 

Here  men  have  sought  obliterated  golds, 

Have  wooed  the  ancient  airs,  and  held  their 

sway  — 
Whereat  I  closed  mine  eyes  to  silent  molds 

And  wandering  in  fancy,  linked  Today 
With  Yesterday.    Then  all  the  Future  holds 
Rushed   by   me  like   a  dream   and  passed 
away. 

417553 


Introduction 

WHATEVEE  the  reader  may  discover  in 
the  poetry  of  Raine  Bennett,  he  cannot 
fail  to  recognize  a  pronounced  individuality  and 
a  singular  aptitude  for  dramatic  expression.  In 
the  detail  of  form  Bennett  is  not  conventional, 
but  his  unconventionally  in  manner  is  the  re 
sult  of  a  symphonic  cast  of  mind  rather  than 
the  pose  of  a  deliberate  rebel.  Sometimes  he  ap 
pears  to  be  merely  improvising  with  words, 
but  in  a  few  moments  we  have  caught  the  cen 
tral  theme  and  are  amazed  at  its  magnetic 
sincerity. 

What  does  it  matter  whether  the  verse  be 
free  or  "fettered,"  "new"  or  "old"  if  the 
singer  have  both  song  and  sincerity?  It  is  the 
irritating  pose,  the  trivial  affectation  of  so  many 
"free  verse"  bards,  rather  than  their  form 
against  which  the  average  reader  rebels.  Free 
verse  begins,  for  some  readers,  with  the  suspi 
cion  of  being  an  affectation,  though  as  a  matter 
of  fact  there  is  just  as  much  and  possibly  more 
affectation  in  those  formal  lines  the  "music" 


vn 


INTRODUCTION 

of  which  conceals  so  much.  Free  verse  is  more 
transparent,  and  it  is  the  merit  of  Bennett  that 
what  we  see  in  his  work  is  always  worth  the 
seeing.  " 

Always  there  is  some  idea  expressed  through 
the  medium  of  an  emotion,  and  if  the  poet  is 
more  dramatic  than  lyric,  it  is  because  he  is 
picturing  rather  than  singing  about  war.  He 
has  written  several  dramas,  and  as  a  Californian 
has  the  distinction  of  being  the  first  dramatist 
of  his  state  to  achieve  the  production  of  a  manu 
script  at  the  Greek  Theatre,  Berkeley.  It  was 
a  Bedouin  tragedy  entitled  '  *  The  Talisman ' '  and 
was  well  received  by  critics  and  the  public  at 
this,  its  second  presentation,  having  been  first 
produced  by  literati  of  Carmel  at  the  "Forest 
Theatre. ' '  Another  play,  the  ' '  South  Sea  Idol, ' ' 
was  given  its  initial  production  two  years  be 
fore  at  the  Columbia  Theatre  in  San  Fran 
cisco.  He  distinguished  himself  while  a  stu 
dent  of  law  at  Stanford  University,  by  partici 
pating  in  the  literary  plays  given  by  various 
dramatic  societies  there,  and  later  interpreted 
roles  in  "Fire,"  an  aboriginal  drama  by  Mary 
Austin,  and  "Runymede"  by  William  Greer  Har 
rison.  The  latter  apostrophised  Bennet's  charac- 

viii 


INTRODUCTION 

terization  of  King  John  in  a  dedicated  poem. 
In  addition,  Bennett  has  lectured  on  the  drama, 
paying  special  attention  to  the  one-act  play. 
His  most  recent  work  is  included  in  this  volume. 

Mention  is  made  of  his  dramatic  experiences 
because  of  their  bearing  upon  this  collection  of 
verse  "After  the  Day,"  which  he  aptly  des 
cribes  as  a  series  of  ' '  post-war  impressions,  writ 
ten  from  the  psychological  viewpoint  of  a  sol 
dier  permanently  maimed  and  confronted  with 
a  world  of  the  physically  fit,  with  whom  he 
must  continue  to  be  a  competitor."  These 
"after  the  day"  or  "nocturnal"  impressions 
were  all  written  with  a  view  to  their  being  read 
aloud,  and  as  dramatic  reading  they  take  on  a 
singularly  magnetic  quality. 

The  war  did  not  make  Bennett  a  poet,  but  it 
revealed  the  poet  in  him,  and  to  himself,  as  much 
as  to  his  readers.  He  saw  things  so  clearly  and 
felt  so  strongly  he  wanted  to  set  everything 
down  precisely  as  seen  and  felt.  His  work  took 
the  form  of  free  verse  not  because  he  looked 
upon  that  form  as  final,  but  because  he  did  not 
want  to  leave  anything  of  importance  out  of  the 
picture  or  to  put  in  anything  merely  to  fill. 

ix 


INTRODUCTION 

He  wanted  the  perfect  word,  whether  it  hap 
pened  to  be  a  dactyl  or  a  spondee,  hence  his 
"free"  or  new  verse.  If  the  thing  seen  or  the 
thing  felt  is  more  to  you  than  the  conventional 
melody  of  words,  you  will  more  than  admire  the 
poetry  of  Baine  Bennett. 

This  does  not  mean  that  he  is  indifferent  to 
the  music  of  words.  On  the  contrary  you  will 
find  line  after  line  construed  with  perfect  ear, 
and  in  fact  the  melody  is  broken  only  when  the 
thought  or  emotion  so  takes  possession  of  him 
that  he  refuses  to  vary  the  expression  to  fit  the 
cadence. 

The  poem  of  the  series  which  is  entitled 
" Peace"  was  originally  printed  in  the  San 
Francisco  Chronicle.  As  a  result  of  its  publica 
tion  quite  a  number  of  people  wrote  offering  to 
care  wholly  or  in  part  for  the  poet's  material 
wants!  The  story  of  the  wounded  soldier  had 
moved  them  to  the  limit  of  their  generosity.  It 
was  praised  by  Witter  Bynner,  and  other  poets. 

The  remaining  themes  are  nearly  all  on  war, 
and  all  have  distinctive  merit  as  the  earnest 
song  of  a  new  singer.  In  some  of  them,  Bennett 
gives  quite  a  new  meaning  to  free  verse,  for  he 


INTRODUCTION 

shows  that  it  can  be  free  to  ~be  perfectly  beauti 
ful,  melodic,  and  sometimes  even  pretty,  though 
strength  is  his  dominant  note. 

GEORGE  DOUGLAS, 

Literary  Editor  of  the 
San  Francisco  Chronicle. 


XI 


Contents 

Peace  .        .        .        .  .        .        1 

Baoul's  Last  Nocturne      .        .        .        .      11 

The  Shell  Crater        .       ,.        ...      23 

Before  Cambrai  .         .        .        .        .      27 

Le  Poilu      .        .        .        .        ...      29 

Departure  .        .  .  .31 

Antoine,  the  Birdman         .        .        .        .33 

Found  in  a  Diary 40 

Soldier,  Answer  Me!          ....       45 
Pere  Lachaise      ......      48 

Croix  De  Guerre 55 

Wounded 57 

A  Whisper  at  the  Gate       .        ...      59- 

The  Albatross 61 

Domesday    .......       63 

Amerongen  Castle       .         .  .         .66 

The  Sniper          .        .        .        .        .        .      69 

Passing  in  the  Sun     .        .        .         .         .       72 

The  Aviator        .        .        .        .        .        .74 

Outriders  of  the  Night       ....       77 

Le  Strynge 81 

Anarchy       ....        .        .         .       83 

xiii 


CONTENTS 

Post  Mortem       ...  85 

' 


......  86 

Coup  d'Etat        .....  87 

De  Profundis      ....  88 

The  Great  War  ...  89 

MISCELLANEOUS 

I  Saw  a  Dead  Man    .....  100 

On  Duty     .......  102 

In  a  Belgian  Prison  .....  105 

In  The  Shadows         .        .         .  106 

A  Cashmere  Song      .        .  107 


xiv 


Peace 

SHOULD  poets  be  sent  to  battle — 
Drafted  into  service  with  a  gun, 
Or  mustered  out  for  service  with  a  pen? 
That  is  the  question  old  friends  are  asking, 
And  I  am  yearning  to  answer  them,  I  who  lost 
My  legs  in  Alsace,  and  my  heart  in  Lorraine. 

No  one  is  unkind  to  me ;  which  I  take  to  be 
A  fine  deference,  because  in  Lille 
I  was  a  prisoner  of  War. 

As    though    a    dream   of    childhood   had   been 

anticipated, 

I  am  allowed  by  my  officials 
To  watch  a  flock  of  Merino  sheep 
On  a  wide  farm  in  the  West — 
While  idling  the  hours  I  trace  verses 
On  the  inside  of  wrappers  embellishing  cans 
Of  Bordeaux  mackerel,  caught  in  Monterey. 
After  this  manner  I  strive,  if  ever  so  vainly, 
To  unburden  my  mind  of  its  terrors, 
Seeking  to  forget  the  scars  inflicted  on  me 
Because  I  fought  for  my  Country. 

[1] 


AFTER  THE   DAY 

A  quaint  adage  used  by  my  ancestors  read : 
"A  poet  is  born,  not  made  — " 
But  that  was  long  before  the  war. 

I,  a  mutilated  soldier,  abandoned  by  all 
Former  associations,  tent  pals,  canteen  loungers, 
Officers  of  the  guard,  patrols,  and  Durham  — 
Have  attained  the  plains  for  solace,  and  am  glad ! 
For  I  was  once  a  yokel  from  the  hills 
With  a  penchant  for  rhyme  and  Latin  meters, 
So  they  have  carried  my  body  to  this  sheltering 
Laurel  in  the  glen,  and  have  equipped  me 
With  the  crooked  staff  of  a  shepherd  — 

Even  a  poet  without  legs 
Has  his  usefulness ! 

The  fragrant  airs  in  dalliance 

Blow  over  miles  of  May — 

What  soldier  of  this  newer  day 

Would  not  follow  them,  these  little  winds, 

These  whispers  from  the  Infinite  that  formerly 

Meant  nothing,  but  now  have  many  voices  ? 

See  the  hogs,  contented  and  at  ease! 
Do  you  think  there  is  no  joy  in  observing 
Life,  instead  of  Death  1 

[2] 


AFTER   THE    DAY 

There  are  horses  at  pasture,  and  cows  grazing — 
What  do  they  know  of  explosives  ? 
Yet  how  many  of  these  lie  rotting 
On  the  fields  of  the  fleur-de-lis !  • 

In  the  distance, 

On  the  plowlands  a  whistling  teamster 

Guides  his  sorrels,  and  across  the  fallow 

A  jackass  brays!  What  is  more  ridiculous  than 

that  jester, 
Whose   ears,    and   strange   noises,   vainglorious 

laughs 

And  useless  prancings  are  so  Hohenzollern  ? 
With  all  his  legs,  who  would  change  places  with 

him? 

Not  I !  His  entertainments  do  not  appeal  to  me 

I  would  rather  remain  a  poet. 

When  fragile  violets  are  plucked  from  their 
shadows  in  the  forest, 

Knowing  full  well  they  will  die  in  the  sunlight, 

Do  you  think  less  of  them  for  their  inability 

To  keep  pace  with  the  garish  day? 

This  is  my  lonely  predicament.  May  I  feel  how 
ever, 

On  the  one  theory  that  flowers  about  to  die 

Are  nevertheless  welcome — 

[3] 


AFTER   THE   DAY 

My  thoughts  may  please  you,  like  violets  in  a 

vase 
During  their  little  hour! 

Yet  were  not  all  these  particulars  in  my  land 
scape 

Meant  for  you  and  me  ? 

When  the  fresh  blossoms  of  clover,  dew- 
besprent  and  young, 

Upturn  their  purple  harvest  to  the  skies  and 
glowing  insects, 

Do  they  not  smile  at  heaven, 

And  at  you  and  me,  as  well  as  the  butterflies  ? 

But  yesterday  a  troop  of  bees 

Maneuvered  across  the  perfumed  grasses 

Laden  with  the  spoils  of  their  campaign  — 

And  I  had  wished  all  booty 

Were  as  sweet ! 

When  a  lark  with  melodious  acclaim 
Soars  through  the  dawning  clouds, 
Is  it  not  to  awaken  me,  as  well  as  you  ? 

These  are  my  consolations ! 
Here,  watching  silent  acres 
Verdant  from  the  tears  of  stars, 

[4] 


AFTER   THE    DAY 

And  cool  meadows  reaching  from  me 

Through  emerald  seas, 

Sheep  browsing,  and  the  far  murmur  of  reeds 

By  a  winding  river  — 

All  of  these  are  better  awards  for  service 

Than  a  medal  of  bronze, 

Or  a  special  dispensation  from  the  Pope. 

They  were  better,  and  meant  more, 

Before  I  enlisted. 

I  had  my  feet, 

Which  I  remember  were  considered  necessary  at 

the  time  — 

Encased  in  strong  military  boots ;  my  jeans  were 
Thrown    aside    by    the  sergeant.     Thereupon  a 

smart  uniform 
Was  fitted  to  my  figure.     The  sunburned,  straw 

sombrero 
Now  protecting  my  ears  became  a  felt  hat  with 

tassels, 

And  I  was  dubbed  a  ' '  recruit, ' ' 
Which  is  the  nucleus  of  a  soldier. 

So  my  dreams 

Of  threshing  hay,  and  the  golden  glory  of  the 
moon 

[5] 


AFTER   THE   DAY 

Rising    at    dayfall    over    burnished    waves    of 

grain  — 

Were  shattered  by  deracinating  cannon, 
And  "shell  shock"  has  eclipsed  the  vision  of  old 

summers. 

I  saw  a  raven  fly  over  sleeping  battlefields 
In  the  gray  mists  of  dawn,  and  there  was  a  glow 
On  its  wing,  as  the  passing  night 
Draped  in  malignant  shadows  the  last  vestige 
Of  its  flight.     I  shuddered  when  this  occurred, 
Because  it  forboded  the   dark  couriers  of  the 
Future. 

All  the  rhymes  of  my  boyhood  rattled  together 

Like  the  discord  of  foreign  brasses, 

The  bugler  no  longer  tongued  decasyllabically, 

And  I  became  a  strange  creature  in  the  ranks 

Continuing  to  fall  out  of  step 

Without  apparent  reason; 

If  I  had  said 

The  cause  was  in  my  soul 

They  would  have  laughed  at  me, 

And  called  it  a  "pun"  — 

Which,  in  literature,  is  perpetrated  by  a  slacker. 

[6] 


AFTER   THE   DAY 

I  have  been  in  service,  deep  into  it, 
Forgetting  all  but  my  country,  and  risking  all 
As  I  would  do  again ;  but  I  have  seen 
The  body  of  a  poet  in  Flanders,  and  I  know 
There  were  words  stopped  in  his  mouth 
That  could  herald  peace,  and  eloquence 
Died  in  his  veins,  with  beauty's  vaster  meanings. 
There  were  exaltations  unattained,  achievements 

locked 

On  his  pale  lips,  and  songs  ineffable 
Forever  stilled.     I  am  aware  of  this,  for  there 

was  a  whirr 

As  of  ghostly  pinions  heard  thundering  afar 
By  several  comrades,  when  they  approached  his 

remains 

Clinging  to  the  wire  entanglements 
Above  our  trenches. 

A  soldier  who  has  fought 

Against  the  offensive  called  Death  comes  face  to 

face 
With  Poetry,  as  a  spirit  does  its  Maker. 

If  you  doubt  these  morals  wrought  from  No 

Man's  Land, 

Let  the  gaunt  survivors  of  battlefields 
Tell  their  stories ! 

[7] 


AFTER   THE    DAY 

Ah,  there  shall  be  heartrending  pity  then, 
Commingled  with  that  anguish  all  animals  must 

feel 

When  hunted  down,  for  no  wrong-doing 
Save  the  insolence  of  Life. 

There  shall  be  mystery,  and  romance, 
Grand  sacrifice,  and  martyrdom  recounted, 
And  what  empyreal  glory  men  experience 
In  the  flying  havoc  of  war ! 

Let  the  wounded  tell  of  their  bleeding, 

And  the  hush  of  silence  closing  in  on  them ; 

Speak  to  a  convalescent  aviator,  for  instance, 

A  birdman  who  has  heard 

The  eagle  scream  his  triumph  from  the  skies  — 

Ask  him  to  recall  the  long  afternoons,  bound  in 

cotton  and  gauze, 
The  gassed  maniacs  crying  in  cots, 
And  those  faithful  soothsayers,  the  nurses, 
Moving  so  carefully,  so  quietly ! 

When  a  nurse  smiles 
One  never  knows  whether  it  is  a  rule 
Of  the  Red  Cross,  or  the  Eternal  Feminine 
Striving  to  conceal  a  multitude  of  griefs, 
Knowing  there  is  no  room  for  laughter 
In  all  that  desolation. 

[8] 


AFTER   THE    DAY 

Would  that  the  splendid  dead 
Could  divulge  their  adventures  — 
Reveal  the  immutable  secrets  of  God, 
And    dwell    no    more    in    unknown,    platonic 
heights ! 

There  were  fine  tales  made  for  children, 

On  the  flaming  fields  of  France : 

Tales  of  cutthroats,  and  merciless  barbarism, 

Of  robbery,  pillage  and  destruction ; 

Yarns  of  strange  murders  committed  at  sea 

By  men  who  strove  to  win  great  wars 

By    drowning    mothers,    and    speeding    infants 

heavenward 
Before  their  time.     Then  will   follow  glorious 

narrative, 

And  how  most  famous  Admirals  forbade 
The  encircling  oceans  to  these  brigands  of  the 

deep, 
While  strong,  sabred  veterans,  scarred  by  many 

trials, 
Hurled  millions  of  crusaders  over  there ! 

I  have  heard  the  lusty,  silver  shouting 
Of    a    regiment     cruising    Eastward:    "Free 
dom!"— 

[9] 


AFTER   THE   DAY 

0,   that  was   a  battle   cry;   and   I   was  there, 
All  of  me,  to  make  the  world  safe  for  Democracy ! 

Now  come  the  last  scenes  of  all: 

Their  settings  are  of  gray  sunsets, 

With  streaks  of  red,  to  light  the  naves 

Of  famous  cathedrals,  and  cities  old  in  story. 

Drifts  of  smoke  roll  through  the  village  streets 

Commingling  the  secret  souls  of  men 

Like  incense  curling  from  twilight  tapers 

Into  the  mauve  beyond !     Thus  you  will  have 

Before  your  mind's  eye  a  picture 

No  artist  would  dare  to  paint,  and  no  writer 

Shall  ever  describe  — 

Only  a  wounded  soldier  screaming  in  the  dark 

Has  ever  seen  these  things,  and  you,  and  you, 

"Will  be  able  to  see  them  only  in  his  eyes ! 

So  all  shall  come  to  know  some  day 
That  physical  deprivation 
Is  not  too  heavy  a  burden  to  carry 
For  having  gone  over  the  trenches 
In  France ! 

L'Envoi 

Even  a  poet  without  legs 
Has  his  usefulness. 

[10] 


AFTEE   THE   DAY 


Raoul's  Last  Nocturne 

MUSICIANS ! 
Let  me  tell  you  the  story  of  Eaoul 
The  violinist  — 

Gun-wadder  of  the  144th  Field  Artillery 
The  good  soldier, 
The  violinist ! 

It  was  late 

In  the  Argonne  forest, 

And  he  was  playing  a  quaint  air  of  Persia ; 

Surely,  you  remember  it : 

"0  moon  of  my  delight,  that 
knows  no  wane — " 

The  trees  drew  closer 

While  we  listened, 

And  the  wood- wind's  breath 

Fell  languishing 

In  the  arms  of  the  shadowed  branches. 

Arias  from  many  an  outlander's  retreat 
Lulled  the  gloaming 


AFTER   THE   DAY 

With  dulcet  cadences  of  peace, 

And  the  sun  had  gone 

In  gorgeous  conflagration 

Behind  the  smoking  battlements  of  France. 

He  raised  his  antique  instrument  and  bow, 
Standing  at  ease  against  the  barricade; 
And  we,  so  tired  of  strife 
Were  gathered  there 
To  hear  the  strange  tales 
Fashioned  by  his  Art. 

Still !     A  moment  hesitant, 

And  then  on  slow  wings  lilting 

By  wistful  strains 

And  semblances  obscure 

He  struck  some  prelude 

Kindred  to  the  hour, 

And  drew  a  thousand  visions  from  the  Dark. 

Awhile  he  stood, 

Improvising  themes  on  happy  valleys, 

Pastorals,  and  sylvan  inference, 

When  hold!     The  trees  — 

Were  those  the  trees  of  Argonne  ? 

Nay?     Then,  say  — 

[12] 


AFTER   THE    DAY 

Whence  came  that  fragrance  of  Sierran  air, 
That  westering,  deep  draught  from  overseas? 


Before  our  eyes 

The  purple  ranges  loomed, 

And  snow-clad  mountains  thrilling  to  the  stars ! 

We  found  ourselves  in  canyons 

Deep,  and  crimsoning  aflame  ; 

Were  lost  on  dim  slopes 

Where  the  cedar  grieves  — 

And  roamed  beneath  the  confidence  of  pines ! 

We  heard  the  primal  moon-song  of  coyotes, 

Saw  gaunt  shadows 

Creeping  on  the  mesa — 

Saw  camp  fires 

Gleaming  through  the  dusk.  .  .  . 

Heard  the  requiem  of  rain 
Across  the  sage ! 

We  saw  him  swayed 

Through  those  insistencies 

Conferred  by  Self,  impassionate  and  sad ; 

His  was  a  message 

[13] 


AFTER   THE   DAY 

Stirred  in  lyric  shades 
For  us  alone  — 

It  was  like  the  presence 

Of  some  furtive  Soul 

Searching  the  wide,  white  heavens 

For  its  mate, 

And  all  the  plaintive  yearning 

Of  the  strings, 

Rose  in  answer 

To  our  lonely  hearts ! 

We  lived,  and  died, 
And  lo.  . . . 

— awake  in  bourns 
Beyond  all  present  understanding: 

We  hear  the  early  carols  of  Aidenn 

Hear  the  matins 

Of  orioles  homing  in  Eolian  dawns. 

Lydian  measures, 

Heedless  of  the  moment  — 

And  melodies  exotic 

Follow  fugues 

Hushed  by  the  gloom  of  Ages; 

[14] 


AFTER   THE    DAY 

We  are  in  silent  wonder  of  that  man 

Who  can  with  subtle  fingers 

And  his  bow 

Draw  poignant  meanings 

From  the  wilderness. 

On  meads  untenanted 

By  graves  — 

Peal  chords  of  April's  green  gladness! 

Where  the  harvest,  weary  ox-wain  creaked, 

Our  swart  artillery 

Scars  the  tongueless  sod; 

And  in  and  out  their  wheels 

Dark  poppies  blow  — 

And  over  them 

Marauding  birds  go  by! 

Pandean  pipes 

Forgotten  in  the  glades 

Rejoice  once  more 

Through  the  drear  solitude  of  Argonne. 

And  we  stay 

Like  a  gathering  of  Bacchanalian  gods 

Hearing  the  wine-songs 

Of  old  Arcady! 

[15] 


AFTER   THE   DAY 

Slender  reeds 

In  favored  places  wrought, 

Spoke  of  a  spell 

Transmuted  by  the  elves 

That  men  may  seek  forever 

To  no  end ; 

So  touched  by  lips 

All  wanton  wooed,  and  wild, 

They  make  young  lilies 

Tremulous  at  eve, 

When   every  lolling   lotus 

On  the  lake 

Yearns  for  somnolent  dews! 

We  heard  soft  flutes 

Ineffable,  and  sweet, 

And  trolls  their  pretty  signals  trumpeting; 

Satyrs  insubordinate,  and  sprites 

Laughing  unduly  • — 

And  many  gnomes  cavorting  out  of  ranks! 

We  heard  the  dryad's  intimate  tattoo, 

And  sylphic  fifes 

Blown  faintly  from  the  hills.  .  .  . 

We  heard  their  tiny  timbrels 
At  dayfall, 

[16] 


AFTER   THE   DAY 

So  seeking, 

By  articulated  wile  and  rustic  whim, 

To  captivate  the  iris-hidden  streams  — 

With  murmurous  delight 

To  fascinate 

Those  vales  of  startled  Echo 

Where  tremble   and   begins 

The  intimation  of  Elysian  Song. 

Adagios  complained  from  dawn  to  dawn 

Against  the  rude  reluctances  of  Night; 

There  too,  Andantes 

Holding  trysts  celestially  remote  — 

Sung  with  their  certain  diffidence,  aspiring 

Toward  the  pale  ports  of  the  Pleides. 

While  over  all,  in  psens,  on,  and  on, 

Like  some  vast  oratorio 

The  exultant  orbs 

Of  Evening  communed 

In  far,  illusive  music 

Of  the  Spheres. 

So  did  the  bleak,  unhallowed  wood 
Avail  surcease  enchanting 
From  the  gyves  of  war, 

[17] 


AFTER  THE   DAY 

And  we  were  lead  by  vagrant  Genius 

To  those  far  heights 

That  mightily  divide 

The  sightless  from  the  Sight. 

We  were  his  true,  attentive  audience 

The  while  he  wove 

A  myriad  rhapsodies 

Into  the  loom  of  one  Tonality; 

Calling  rare  voices 

From  the  East, 

And  North,  and  South, 

And  West,  in  motives  blent 

From  out  the  singing  gardens  of  the  World. 

"  What  was  that,  Sergeant? 

"Nothing,  you  fool! 

Let  him  play! 

Some  leaves 

Scattered  by  a  random  shot; 

The  guns  of  our  friend,  the  Enemy 

Are  speeding 

Dispatch  bearers  to  Mars! 

Never  mind  — 

Let  him  play!" 

[18] 


AFTER   THE    DAY 

Then  in  a  surge  of  minor  harmony 

It  seemed  his  bow  swept  suddenly  to  tears 

We  caught 

The  secret  pleadings  of  salt  tides, 

And  that  sadness 

In  the  ocean's  elegies; 

So  came  dreams  Holy, 

And  glimpses 

Lost  in  sleep 

Of  ancient  galleons 

On  the  farthest  main, 

Shrouded  argosies 

At  anchor  — 

The  surf  booming 

On  shores  unknown.  .  .  . 

Coasts  storm-crumbled, 

And  cliffs 

Where  the  gray  morn  breaks ; 

The  heave  of  an  offing 
Swelling,   sweeping ; 
Combers  crashing, 
Foaming,  flowing  — 

[19] 


AFTER   THE   DAY 

Then  mist-ridden  crests, 
And  a  drifting  spar  .  .  . 
And  the  sea's  face 
Flung  with  spray! 

You  who  have  prayed 
When  the  mad  typhoon 
Gnashed  its  teeth 
In  the  biting  gale  — 
You  who  have  heard 
Most  tortured  waves 

Cry  out  to  the  frenzied  skies  — 
You  would  have  plunged 

Through  those  wild  waters, 

Wilder  yet  with  flood 

Of  Sound  tempestuous; 

You  would  have  understood,  somehow, 

While  he  played.  .  .  . 

You  who  have  known 

The  rimrock  ways, 

And  the  trails  of  the  unbought  West 

Who  have  staked  your  bivouac 

In  the  heart  of  the  hills,  or  have  closed 

Your  lids  on  the  desert's  loneliness, 

And  the  long  twilight,  on  the  cherished  plains 

[20] 


AFTER   THE   DAY 

In  the  trove  of  Youth 's  lost  years  — 

You  would  have  thought 

Of  those  untrammeled  haunts 

So  far  from  Argonne  (Christ,  how  far!) 

And  yet  so  near 

To  something  in  your  souls; 

You  would  have  listened 

While  he  played, 

Your  lips  mute  and  your  throat 

In  sorrow  locked  • — 

While  the  eyes  of  comrades 

And  your  own 

Brimmed  full  with  memories! 

"Sergeant!  What  has  happened? 

Good  God!  My  shoulder.  .  .  . 

Blood  .  .  .  nothing  .  .  .  but  .  .  .  blood  . 

"Raoul!   Where  are  you? 
Raoul  — ' ' 

"Shut  up,  you  fool! 
He  was  interrupted 
By  one  of  Fritz's  shells; 
I  found  his  helmet 

[21] 


AFTER   THE   DAY 


A  few  moments  ago 

And  here, 

You  may  have  it  — 

A  fragment 
Of  his  fiddle!" 


[22] 


AFTER   THE   DAY 


The  Shell  Crater 

I  HAD  been  wandering 
Through  the  forest  of  Epinoy  — 

And  in  the  wild,  mid  region  of  my  walk 

I  paused  beside  a  shell  crater. 

It  had  filled 

With  turgid  downpour,  drainage,  and  the  dew 

From  silent  mounds,  unnumbered  and  unnamed. 

It  resembled  the  visage  of  a  tarn, 

Over  which  a  cold  moon  rising,  traced 

Most  strange,  fantastic  figures; 

And  the  trees  of  Epinoy 

Sighed  close  to  the  mouth  of  the  crater. 

A  voice 

Fell  through  the  wistful  wood. 

It  was  indistinct, 

And  not  from  the  branches; 

It  was  low, 

Like  the  lament  of  a  spirit.  .  .  . 

[23] 


AFTER   THE    DAY 

Long  I  paced,  long 
In  the  drifting  mists, 
Alone,  in  the  Silence. 

Nothing 

Was  distinguishable  there, 

Nothing  beyond  a  desolation 

On  the  water  — 

Nothing  save  those  figures,  made  fantastic 

By  the  moon's  saffronic  glaze. 

Then  I  glanced 
Above  the  crater  — 
And  saw  that  the  trees  of  Epinoy 
Swayed  with  a  dark  unrest. 
Whereat,  I  concluded  the  voice 
Was  a  sadness  on  the  wind; 
Or  some  sylvan  grief 
Such  as  woodlands  know 
When  the  last  leaves  die  — 
When  the  fronds  fall,  fluttering 
From  their  gnarled  arms! 

But  the  sigh  continued,  like  the  voice 
Of  a  spirit  lamenting. 

[24] 


AFTER   THE   DAY 

Finally,  the  surface  of  the  tarn 

Stirred  by  the  late  insistence  of  the  breeze  - 

Wrinkled  its  visage 

And  danced,  with  a  melancholy  rhythm, 

Almost  in  trend,  I  fancied 

To  the  whisper  of  its  shadows; 

While  the  moon,  shone  solemnly 

And  cold! 

Then  a  far  thunder  reverberated 
—  It  was  nocturnal  canonading 
From  artillerists  unknown  — 

Swiftly,  the  red-tongued  lightning 

Licked  skyward,  its  sudden  prongs 

Stabbed  the  trees  of  Epinoy  — 

And  their  limbs,  their  bereaved  branches 

Groaned  from  wounds  inflicted  by  the  storm; 

And  there  was  a  multitude  of  sighs. 

Leaning  forward,   striving  to  discern 

What  sorrow  upward  welled 

From  the  crater  — 

To  my  terror,  I  beheld 

The  haggard  features  of  a  soldier. 

His  drenched  hair 

[25] 


AFTER   THE   DAY 

Lapped  by  the  undulations, 

Writhed,  like  kelp  around  his  forehead; 

And  the  lips  were  parted 

As  though  his  soul  had  flown 

While  struggling  to  articulate 

Some  unrequited  prayer!    A  glimpse  — 

And  the  chill  waters  of  the  tarn 

Closed  over  him  forever. 

The  surface 

Resumed  its  sullen  languor  — 

The  winds 

Abated  utterly,  and  the  trees 

Of  Epinoy  communed  no  more, 

Save  in  the  low,  least  murmurs 

Of  a  forest. 

I  had  been  wandering, 

And  in  the  wild,  mid  region  of  my  walk 

This  incident  occurred; 

Yet  so  surely  as  God 

Lets  me  tell  you, 

I  saw  naught  but  mine  own  reflection 

In  the  crater! 


[26] 


AFTEE   THE   DAY 


Before  Cambrai 

A  SHARPSHOOTER,  before  the  taking  of 
Cambrai 

Aimed  carefully  at  my  silhouette,  while  I  stood 
On  sentinel  duty,  under  the  stars. 

His  bullet  tore  through  one  eye  and  out  of  the 
other  — 

So  now,  when  lately  the  moon 

Mounts  heavenward,  and  the  myriad  constella 
tions 

Look  down  from  their  undaunted  heights, 

I  wonder  if  they  see,  in  that  vast  darkness  of 
theirs, 

Any  more  than  one  whose  individual  night 

Has  closed  him  from  them  forever ! 

I  have  walked  forth  on  June  mornings, 
When  the  great  orb  of  the  Sun 
Observed  every  idle  cloud  in  passing; 
I    have    turned   my   face    up    to    those    aerial 
meadows, 

[27] 


AFTER   THE   DAY 

Marveling  if  all  the  vague  translucencies  of  Day 
Were  akin  to  them,  as  utter  blackness 
Is  to  me,  or  if  the  dews  of  dawn 
Are  ever  like  the  blindness  of  tears ! 

Yet  to  one  who  dwells  in  shadow 

There  comes,  sooner  or  later, 

A  reverence  for  the  depths  of  things; 

And  I  have  had  such  visions 

That  few  with  eyes  can  know  • — 

Learned  of  the  inner  sources  that  illume, 

And  soothed  my  hours  with  opalescent  dreams! 

There  is  a  steadfast  gleaming 

In  the  lightness  of  my  heart, 

And  I  have  seen  the  beacon  of  my  Soul. 


[28] 


AFTER   THE    DAY 


Le  Poilu 

DRENCHED  to  the  skin,  knee-deep  in  mud, 
Disheartened,  all  but  dead  — 
This  was  the  condition,  most  pitiable  and  true, 
Of  a  small  detachment  at  the  Marne. 
Among  them,  yet  not  one  of  a  group, 
But  standing  aside  (as  I  have  noticed  heroes  do), 
Was  a  young,  French  guardsman. 

They  were  anxious,  those  exhausted  defenders, 
And  their  faces  twitched  from  the  torment  of 

suspense ; 

Some  were  chilled  by  long  exposure, 
Others  flushed  with  fever, 
All  were  anxious,  these  bleeding  patriots, 
And  most  of  all,  the  young  French  guardsman, 
As  he  stood  in  the  gathering  shadows 
Watching  every  slight  maneuvre  of  the  enemy 
Through  a  space  between  the  trench-sacks. 

After  a  lapse  of  silence,  he  whispered  something : 
It  was  in  no  way  a  signal, 
And  would  have  aroused  little  attention 
Were  it  not  for  the  restive  fervor  of  the  man 
And  that  strange  gaze  in  his  eyes  — 

[29] 


AFTER   THE   DAY 

As  he  stood  in  the  gathering  shadows 
Watching  between  the  trench-sacks. 

''What  did  he  say?"  ventured  one. 
"Look  at  his  haggard  features!"  said  another. 
"I  know  the  type;   he  will  die  fighting!"  con 
cluded  a  third. 

And  all  of  his  tired  comrades, 
Peered  at  the  young  French  guardsman. 

Again  his  lips  moved: 

"They  shall  not  pass!"  he  breathed; 

And  the  winds  of  evening  caught  that  phrase, 

Whirling  it  like  a  leaf  at  twilight 

Into  the  heart  of  France ! 

You  have  already  heard  it, 

It  has  become  familiar  to  you 

Afar  East ;    and  to  you,  afar  West  — 

And  to  the  clans  of  the  North, 

And  to  the  tribes  of  the  South. 

But  no  one  knows  that  a  young  French  guards 
man 

Was  first  to  utter  those  words,  drenched  to  the 
Bkin, 

Knee-deep  in  mud,  disheartened,  all  but  dead  — 

As  he  stood  in  the  gathering  shadows, 

In  the  grim  dusk  of  the  Marne. 

[30] 


AFTER   THE    DAY 


Departure 

JT^AREWELL!   The  path  I  take 
JF     May  have  a  scarlet  ending, 
Or  blaze  in  a  wide,  wild  radiance 
Unknown  to  us; 
Nevertheless,  farewell! 

My  knapsack  is  adjusted  — 
All  the  implements  of  war 
Are  strapped  to  my  shoulders, 
And  on  my  heart  rides  a  stone 
To  balance  these  securely. 

The  path  I  take 

May  have  a  scarlet  ending  — 

Or  lie  under  gold,  rich  skies 

Spun  marvellously 

Of  dawns,  and  days,  and  darks 

In  splendor  flung 

With  glory  unsurmised! 

Yet  you  will  be  dreamed  of  there, 

And  I 

Shall  have  fine  memories  of  mirth, 

[31] 


AFTER   THE   DAY 

Of  sudden  caresses 

And  the  low-mooned  bayou, 

All  holy  with  quiet,  and  your  whispers ! 

Farewell!   The  path  I  take 

Leads  on  to  bleeding  valleys 

Shrapnel  gashed,  and  furtive  ivith  the  ghosts 

Of  many  travellers.  .  .  . 

My  boots  are  oiled  for  service, 
My  helmet  is  lustrous  and  new; 
My  rifle's  fit,  and  the  flags 
Untattered  where  I  go  — 

But  if  a  moveless,  strange  black  horror 

Comes  uprushing  to  my  eyes, 

And  I  am  gone 

Into  the  enduring  dusts  from  you  — 

Yet  will  I  take  your  image  far  with  me, 

Remembering 

Your  undaunted  loneness,  and  your  smile. 

And  some  night 

You  will  find  me  in  your  arms, 

Pleading  — 

For  the  eventual  white  flame 

Of  your  lips! 

[32] 


AFTER   THE    DAY 


Antoine,  the  Birdman 

ANTOINE  was  an  aviator 
Before  the  storming  of  Ypres. 
But   after   that    day,    when    he    fell    from    the 

clouds  — 

He  assumed  another  role, 
And  was  known  as  an  invalid 
At  the  base  Hospital. 

Some  terror  of  the  altitudes 

Deranged  his  mind, 

Lucky  fellow  though  he  was  — 

To  have  caught  his  plane 

In  a  draught  of  air 

One  sheer  league  from  the  soil ! 

I  recall  at  the  time 

How  we  rushed  to  congratulate  him, 

But  he  was  gone  — 

A  strange,  sad  creature 

Looked  at  us  instead,  regarded  us  queerly 

As  we  lead  him  away  by  the  arm. 

[33] 


AFTER   THE    DAY 

After  a  few  days 

We  noticed  he  continually 

Referred  to  himself  as  a  "bird" 

And  insisted  with  surprising  eloquence 

That  we  need  only  to  * '  exert  our  Will ' ' 

To  fly.     Poor  Antoine  — 

The  mania  of  the  heights 

Had  gripped  him  surely, 

And  though  we  sought  to  pacify  his  soul 

We  knew  nevertheless,  we  knew! 

He  argued 

With  rare  ingenuity; — 

Saying  an  eagle  had  explained  matters 

Above  the  clouds! 

An  alert,  and  dapper  aviator 

Was  Antoine: — 

Small,  wiry  of  limb, 

And  agile,  to  a  degree  scarcely  human. 

His  nose  was  aquiline, 

Like  a  hawk 's  • — 

And  in  the  quick  comprehension  of  his  gaze 

He  seemed  to  take 

A  birdseye  view  of  us.  .  .  . 

[34] 


AFTER   THE    DAY 

After  his  accident 

He  walked  no  more, 

But  hopped,  as  it  were, 

From  place  to  place 

With  his  arms  crooked  at  the  elbow : — 

Like  pinions. 

His  voice  was  shrill, 

And  the  words  he  used 

Were  chirped  across  the  veranda 

From  his  perch 

On  the  wide,  porch  railing. 

It  all  happened  last  night  — 

And  I  shudder  now,  to  divulge  this  information 

Someone  had  conceived  the  idea 

Of  a  masquerade  for  our  convalescents. 

Those  not  too  incapacitated 

Had  nurses  for  their  partners, 

Visitors,  and  such; 

While  others  of  us,  in  chairs 

And  on  crutches,  watched  the  dancers. 

Suddenly  the  room 

Was  darkened  by  a  sweeping  Shadow  r— 

[35] 


AFTER   THE   DAY 

And  lo,  Antoine  the  birdman 

Had  made  his  entrance,  garbed  as  a  falcon ! 

The  costume  was  excellent  • — 

Huge,  ebony  wings 

Extended  celestially 

Down  from  his  shoulders. 

And  from  the  feet  (that  were  claws) 

Upward,  his  body  was  encased 

In  glistening,  black  feathers. 

His  eyes 

Shone  over  the  beak  of  him 

Like  a  condor's,  burning 

With  malignant  lustre; 

And  so  amazing  was  the  impression  he  made, 

So   bizzarre,   so   true,   so   in  keeping  with   his 

mind- — 

That  the  unexpected  appearance, 
Like  an  apparition  silencing  us  a  moment 
By  the  shadow  cast, 
Was  as  suddenly  greeted 
With  long,  and  sincere  applause. 

Thereat,  pluming  himself, 

He  stepped  sedately  to  the  centre  of  the  hall 

'[36] 


AFTER   THE    DAY 

And  claimed,  for  his  first  dance 
The  Chaplain's  daughter. 

This  was  not  madness  — 

It  was  genius ! 

She  had  come 

Dressed  as  a  canary, 

A  timid,  yellow  thing ;  a  small 

Winsome  maid,  a  "bird"  girl 

Fluttering  lightly 

Over  the  shining  surface  of  the  floor. 

The  music  of  a  waltz  began, 

And  to  its  lilting  measures  swiftly 

Swooping,  whirling,  round  and  round 

They  glided,  scarcely  touching 

The  tips  of  their  toes  to  the  wax. 

Louder  sounded  the  violins, 

Wilder  encircling 

The  canary  and  the  falcon  flew, 

Until  the  panel  doors 

Blew  open  at  a  gust  of  wind  — 

Whereupon,  with  startling  decision 

He  clutched  her  in  his  claws 

And  darted  away,  through  the  Night. 

[37] 


AFTER   THE    DAY 

11  Splendid!"  we  applauded; 
"A  superb  effect—  " 

But  the  Chaplain 

Was  pale,  and  we  suppressed 

Our  approval,  subdued 

Our  cheering,  wondering  why  — 

Then  a  wild  fear 

Leaped  in  our  hearts 

With  the  realization  that  he  was  mad  — 

And  the  cliffs 

A  stone's  throw  away! 

The  remembrance 

Of  his  insistent  argument 

That  flying 

Was  an  ability  of  the  Will 

Came  to  us,  as  we  saw  his  figure 

Swallowed  up  by  the  gathering  darkness ; 

Came  to  us  as  we  watched  him 

Half  hopping,  half  soaring, 

In  flight  over  the  intermediate  grasses  • — 

Making  for  the  promontory. 

A  chorus  of  cries  arose • — 

And  all  of  us,  on  sticks,  and  crutches, 

[38] 


AFTER   THE   DAY 

In  wheel-chairs,  and  rockers, 

Stumbled,  fell,  limped,  rushed 

With  united  impulse 

After  the  fleeing  falcon,  with  one  thought 

To  save  the  little  canary 

Palpitating,  trembling,  helpless  in  his  talons! 

The  edge  of  the  cliff  was  reached 
With  nothing  there,  and  all 
Our  efforts  were  in  vain. 

Hesitating,  some  of  us  imagined 
We  discerned  a  bleeding,  inert  mass 
On  the  far  rocks  below  — 

And  some  who  gazed  into  the  sky 
Thought  they  heard 
Growing  fainter,  and  fainter, 
The  whirr  of  enormous  wings.  .  .  . 


[39] 


AFTEE   THE   DAY 


Found  in  a  Diary 

I  AM  hiding  in  a  shell-hole. 
There  is  no  possibility  of  escape.  For  hours 
The  whining  missils  overhead 
Have  told  me  that ! 

Yet  Hope,  like  the  last  drop  in  a  canteen, 
Has  made  it  easier  to  wait.  .  .  . 

Sooner  or  later,  a  spray  of  shrapnel 

Will  end  it  all; 

That  howitzer's  puff  of  smoke  in  the  clearing  — 

Will  it  offer  some  delectable  of  Death? 

Or  one  of  those  mortars, 

Two  hundred  yards  away.  .  .  . 

A  day,  a  night,  another  day,  and  now 

The  fingers  of  dusk  are  closing  around  me  — 

They  are  creeping  over  this  waste  of  mud,  and 

debris, 
They  are  moving,  they  are  reaching  for  me! 

[40] 


AFTER   THE    DAY 

A  shadow  is  an  evil  thing, 
And  there  is  an  uncouth  leer 
In  the  eyes  of  Evening. 

The  "seventy-fives"  * ' whizzbangs " 

"Skodas"  "eighty-eights" 

"Nine-twos"  — 

All  of  these  scream  by, 

Sobbing  to  themselves,  yauping  to  one  another 

For  a  day,  a  night,  and  a  day ! 

Suppose  one  should  spurt  through  my  skull,  sud 
denly, 

Blast  a  shoulder  off, 
Tear  my  legs  to  shreds,  or  plow 
An  exit  through  my  lungs- — 

Yet  after  some  such  shattering 

I  might  live;  Jesus! 

I  might  want  to  live.  .  .  . 

No!   no!   no!   These  hours  of  waiting 

Have  earned  me  more  than  that! 

I  am  entitled  to  my  throw  of  the  dice  • — 

I  deserve  to  die, 

I  have  a  right  to  die ! 

[41] 


AFTER   THE   DAY 

Ah,  let  me  be ! 

Why  do  you  follow  me  through  the  air, 

You  shrieking,  weeping  creatures  — 

Do  you  want  to  find  me,  gash  me,  grind  me 

Into  the  drifts,  and  the  dusts? 

Why  do  you  cry  when  you  pass  me.  ... 

Does  such  rude  traveling  hurt  lead? 

I  wonder  if  it  grieves  iron 

To  disturb  the  blameless  breeze  — 

I  wonder  if  it  pains  iron 

To  hiss  through  a  fair,  West  wind! 

Should  I  be  hit,  I  would  not  survive  r— 
(Something  in  me  rebels  at  the  thought  of  sur 
viving  ! ) 

It  might  come  by  any  direction, 
Or  be  hurled  earthward,  from  the  clouds. 

Would  you  want  to  be  wounded,  unexpectedly? 

No  man  does! 

The  thing  to  do  is  to  arrange  for  death, 

To  make  careful  preparation.  .  .  . 

My  bayonet  is  very  sharp;    it  could  fit  in  my 
chest,  to  the  hilt.  .  .  . 

[42] 


AFTER   THE   DAY 

Suppose    some    damned    explosive    found    me 

here.  .  .  . 

The  shock,  the  suddenness,  the  utter  agony, 
From   something  to   nothing,   in   one   blinding 

instant ! 

No  man  would  wait  for  that  • — 
No  man  can  wait  for  that ! 

So  why  should  I  delay  matters? 

Why  should  I  be  waiting 
When  there  is  no  chance, 
No  way  of  escape  from  here  .  .  . 
And  should  I  rise,  I  would  fall! 

A  day,  a  night,  another  day,  and  now  .  .  . 

My  bayonet  is  very  sharp! 

It  could  fit  in  my  chest,  to  the  hilt  — 

And  if  it  does  not,  some  Hun 's  hot  bullet  will.  . .  . 

Who  wants  to  be  torn,  from  limb  to  limb, 

By  a  Hun's  infernal  device — 

Who  would  wait  to  be  shot 

When  your  own  bayonet  is  clean,  and  keen  ? 

God!   I  can  stand  it  no  longer  — 

The  terror  of  a  midnight  mad  with  flame, 

The  fear  of  another  morning.  .  .  . 

[43] 


AFTER   THE   DAY 

There! 

I  have  plunged  it  .  .  . 

Fitted  it  ...  in  my  chest  .  .  .  to  the  hilt! 

You  will  say  I  was  afraid  .  .  .  to  .  .  .  die  . 
Afraid  to  die  .  .  .  all  suddenly  .  .  .  to  .  .  .  die 
I  was  .  .  .  afraid  .  .  .  to  .  .  .  live  .  .  . 
/  .  .  .  was  .  .  .  afraid  .  .  . 
To  .    .  die! 


[44] 


AFTER   THE   DAY 


Soldier,   Answer  Me! 

SOLDIER,  answer  me! 
What  are  you  fighting  for? 
Is  it  the  archaic  joy  of  battle 
Or  the  conceit  of  arms; 
Is  it  a  desire  to  flaunt  your  courage 
In  the  face  of  Providence, 
Is  it  for  the  bauble  of  Popularity? 

It  is  some  of  these  things,  Man, 

But  most  of  all 

It  is  an  heritage  in  my  heart 

That  stirs 

At  the  wild  roll  of  drums! 

Soldier,  answer  me ! 

What  are  you  bleeding  for? 

Is  it  a  ruse  to  dodge  the  slings  of  Fate 

Is  it  a  chance  you  take 

In  the  game  of  War  — 

Is  it  a  play 

For  the  indulgence  of  a  contrite  world; 

[45] 


AFTER   THE   DAY 

Is  it  a  profanation  of  the  body 
For  the  sake  of  the  Soul? 

It  is  some  of  these  things,  Man, 

But  most  of  all, 

It  is  a  glad  awakening 

At  the  cry  of  bugles! 

Soldier,  answer  me! 

What  are  you  dying  for? 

Is  it  to  justify  the  error 

Of  politicians, 

Is  it  to  glorify  some  leader  — 

Is  it  a  satiation 

At  the  vain  pursuits,  and  mockeries  of  men; 

Are  you  indulgent  only  to  yourself, 

Having  no  desire  to  share 

Your  life  with  others  • — 

Do  you  long  for  the  solid  comfort 

Of  a  grave? 

It  is  some  of  these  things,  Man, 

But  most  of  all 

It  is  because  I  was  born 

On  the  soil  of  my  forefathers; 

I  am  a  young  custodian 

[46] 


AFTER   THE    DAY 


Of  their  lands. 
War  is  the  privilege 
Of  my  race  — 
Birth  gave  it  me, 
And  Death 
Will  not  take  it  away! 


[47] 


AFTER  THE   DAY 


Pere  Lachaise 

YOU,  who  have  been  to  France  - 
While  in  Paris 
Did  you  go  to  the  cemetery 
Of  Pere  Lachaise? 

On  entering, 

Up  the  cypress  avenue 

To  the  "Monument  of  the  Dead" 

By  Bartholome, 

Do  you  recall  the  figures 

Full  of  pathos 

On  that  sarcophagus  of  limestone? 

They  represent  Humanity 

Pressing  forward 

To  the  door  of  the  tomb ! 

That  marble  chapel 
Erected  to  Thiers  — 
And  the  tribute 
To  Abelard  and  Heloi'se! 
Under  a  Gothic  canopy 

[48] 


AFTER   THE    DAY 

Those  statues  are  shaded, 
Symbolizing  the  love  and  misfortune 
Of  two  whose  plight 
Has  been  a  theme 
For  many  poets. 

Here  is  the  last,  surviving  evidence 
Of  famous  authors, 
Dramatists,  and  composers  — 
Remembered  by  an  image, 
A  medallion,  or  a  bust; 
And  within  the  gloom 
Of  every  shrouded  thing 
A  moral  lies ! 

It  is  fair  to  see 

With  what  fine  reverence  the  French 

Honor  their  men  and  women 

Of  genius,  whose  work 

Has  made  the  immortality 

Of  a  Nation. 

Here,  where  the  quaking  aspen 
Trembles  windward, 
And  the  yew  plays,  quietly, 
(Greener,  far,  than  those 

[49] 


AFTER   THE    DAY 

On  the  Champs  Elysees!) 
Repose  the  dreamers 
Of  unburied  Science, 
Philosophy,  and  Art! 

So  musing,  on  all 

That  is,  or  was  • — 

And  all 

That  shall  not  be  again, 

I  realized  (as  my  footfall 

Crushed  the  future  of  a  flower!) 

How  each  solitary  path 

Holds  the  mould  of  men  whose  fame 

Survives  them, 

And  of  women  more  beautiful 

Than  many  passing  in  the  sun. 

And  I  saw,  too, 

The  mounds  of  children 

Whose  cheeks  alas,  held 

No  sententious  tinge 

Of  their  dawns,  nor  any  glimmering 

From  those  far  gates  where  silently 

The  shadows  come,  and  go ! 

You,  on  furlough  from  Chateau  Thierry 
Did  no  message  come  to  you, 

[501 


AFTER   THE   DAY 

Born  on  the  restive  airs  — 

None  of  their  words,  no  answer 

To  stir  your  heart's  lone  questioning? 

I  heard  young  zephyrs 
Holding  secrets  here  — 

And  so  arose  a  murmuring  at  dusk 

That  told  of  Kings 

Who  found  antiquity 

One  everlasting  Night; 

And  some  of  Thought's  nobility 

Had  passed, 

And  those  who  searched  Within  — 

Whereat  the  world 

Knew  them  no  longer ! 

These  souls  were  great, 

And  each  for  greatness  sued  — 

Yet  one  by  one  they  faltered  on  the  Way 

And  their  voices 

Are  become  nocturnal  echoes,  flung 

From  star  to  star. 

Some  toilers  gain  late  laurels 
For  their  pain ; 

[51] 


AFTER   THE   DAY 

Yet  when  Success 

Its  bounty  would  bestow, 

Time  clutches  for  the  wreath  • — 

And  uses  it 

To  decorate  a  tomb! 

I  think  there  is  no  grief 

So  fathomless 

As  the  least  lily 

Pleading  by  a  wall; 

Nor  anything 

More  sad  than  vines 

Clinging  to  an  old  friend's  monument. 

They  seem  to  have  their  transitory  moments, 
Their  unfamiliar,  small  ambitions, 
Seeking  from  enclasped  granite 
Some  eminence,  there  to  gaze 
Upon  the  aspect  of  Eternity. 

What  more  could  you  attain, 

Or  these  poor,  inert  mortals  ? 

The  smallest  fern 

Does  well, 

And  they  fared  ill;  and  you  also 

Are  but  a  minion 

Of  Life's  old  disasters. 

[52] 


AFTER   THE   DAY 

0,  men  of  Hope 
And  men  of  urging  Will ! 
And  you  who  dwell 
In  Wisdom's  halls, 
So  lonely,  and  so  high ! 

There  is  no  leaf 
Inferior  to  you  — 

And  where  your  consecrated  deeds  abide, 

Your  prejudice,  and  pride, 

And  where  your  votive  tapers  flare 

Against  the  passing  Dark ; 

Age  will  beckon  with  a  withered  finger 

Wherever  you  are 

Its  cold  insistency  will  be.  ... 

On  the  final  pyres 

No  sacrifice 

Will  answer  for  your  Self, 

No  other  heart 

Lie  in  your  cerements! 

But  fruitage  of  the  twilight 

Are  men's  souls, 

And  though  the  race  be  hard 

[53] 


AFTER   THE    DAY 

The  winning  near,  or  far, 

A  graveyard  claims  each  weary  contestant. 

If  you  hesitate,  doubting 

Because  I  was  afraid  at  Cantigny  • — 

Go  to  the  resting  place 

Of  those 

From  whom  you  are  descended ; 

Listen  to  the  evening's  searching  breeze 

When  it  drifts 

Into  sepulchres,  and  out  again, 

When    it    curls     under    the     eaves     of     dark 

mausoleums 
And  departs 
With  a  far  whisper  of  despair.  .  .  . 

If  you  understand  its  errand, 

If  you  know  what  it  seeks,  and  where  it  goes  — 

You  will  not  be  forgotten. 


[54] 


AFTER   THE    DAY 


Croix  De  Guerre 

FROM  fields  of  carnage 
I  brought  her  souvenirs: 
A  beryl  signet 
Torn  from  one  the  Emperor 
Had  honored ; 

Also,  a  case  of  old  Damascus 
And  some  trifles 
Gathered  at  twilight 
From  those 
Whose  throats  were  stopped  in  dust. 

"But  these  are  not  treasures,"  she  said; 

"To  have  value 

They  must  ~be  gems  of  'fire!" 

Then,  hesitating, 

I  displayed 

The  small,  bronze  croix  de  guerre 

With  which  a  famous  man 

Had  decorated  me, 

Saying  it  was  for  a  little  thing  I  did 

At  Chalons. 

[55] 


AFTER   THE    DAY 

"But  it  is  not  of  gold/1  she  replied; 
And  alas,  the  ribbon  is  stained! 'f 

Whereat  I  went  away 
Thinking  these  unfit  presents  for  the  one 
I  loved. 

And  for  hours 

I  wandered  through  the  streets 

Until  someone 

Touched  my  arm  in  the  shadows : 

"That  medal  on  your  chest,  mon  cherie  — 
Tell  me  about  it!" 

A  long  time  she  listened, 

And  that  night 

I  entered  the  door  of  Happiness. 


[56] 


AFTER   THE    DAY 


Wounded 

SING  me  a. song,  Fleurette! 
I  have  taken  the  medicine 
As  Messieur  le  Docteur 
Prescribed  it  — 
And  my  pain  .  .  .  my  pain  .  .  .  is  sleeping!" 

'  *  Bien,  cherie  ! 

I  know  a  little  French  one, 

Taught  me  in  the  Convent  of  the  Sacre  Coeur: 

"Petals  falling, 
Breezes  calling 
Blossoms  from  the  grain; 

Lilies  sighing 
Violets  crying — 
Weeping  in  the  rain ! 

The  moon  an  incense-breathing  censer  swings 
Across  the  drowsy  foliage  of  Night  — 
0,  by  the  casement  sings  a  maiden,  0 ! 

[57] 


AFTER   THE    DAY 

The  winds  from  scented  gardens  pass,  like  wings 
Of  many  moths  in  strange,  noctural  flight  — 
O,  by  the  casement  sings  a  maiden,  0 ! 

Her  song  is  of  the  petals 

As  they  fall, 

Her  voice  is  in  the  breezes 

As  they  call 

To  blossoms  from  the  grain, 

Lilies  sighing 

Violets  crying  — 

And  every  heart  soft  weeping 

In  the  rain!" 

"Very  good,  Fleurette. 

Now,  if  you  will  turn  out  the  light  — 

I  believe  I  can  rest  for  a  while." 


[58] 


AFTER   THE    DAY 


A  Whisper  at  the  Gate 

"  T  LOVE  your 

JL      He  would  say,  so  often 
Under  the  trees  ~by  the  garden  gate; 
But  he  went  to  the  front,  Messieur. 
Only  his  words  remain, 
Like  the  perfume  of  flowers  that  have  fallen  — " 

I  know  the  sorrow 

Of  that  peasant  girl  in  Louvain  — 

She  was  one 

Who  had  bade  adieu  forever 

To  a  valiant  defender  of  France. 

"  'I  love  you!' 

He  would  say,  so  often 

Under  the  trees  by  the  garden  gate  — " 

Whispering  on  the  timorous  air  of  night  — 

How  often  have  her  words 

Strayed  across  our  heartstrings ! 

How  often  do  they  stir  the  leaves  of  Yesterday 

And  the  blossoms  of  Today; 

[59] 


AFTER   THE   DAY 

From  what  dreaming  vista 
Has  that  yearning  gone  away  — 
Over  what  streams,  confiding 
When  the  moon  swings  low.  .  .  . 

It  is  the  burden  of  the  winds, 
And  the  sorrow  of  the  sea! 

"  'I  love  yon!' 

He  would  say,  so  often — " 

Memory  brought  only  that, 
And  her  heart  fell,  lost 
Like  a   rose 
In  the  Winter's  blowing. 

"  '/  love  you!'—" 


[60] 


AFTER   THE    DAY 


The  Albatross 

r  SAW  an  albatross  — 

I    Dead,  and  the  shifting  sands 
Sought  to  conceal 
This  too  presumptuous  sorrow, 
Sought  silently 

To  so  engulf  it,  that  the  passing  stars 
Might  shine  ungrieved. 

For  all  men  know 

The  gray  breath  of  the  sea, 

Know  the  storm's  wrath,  and  its  courier 

That  cries  wild  warning 

To  the  shores  of  morn.  .  .  . 

I  saw  an  albatross, 

Dead,  swollen,  slowly  floundered 

By  receding  waters.     I  saw 

Its  body;  I  lost 

That  semblance  of  the  dim,  drenched  heavens 

Urging  from  cliff  to  cloud  above 

The  unrest  of  the  sea!      % 

[61] 


AFTEE   THE    DAY 

I  missed  the  white,  gleaming  wing 

Against  my  blue  world; 

The  calm  eye  and  lone,  liquescent  lilt 

Prom  opal  crests;  the  dipping  into  these 

For  sudden,  silvered  treasure  — 

Bevelling,   rejoicing,   reposing 

In  the  wind's  wake; 

High  feathering,  low  darting, 

All  finally  to  soar 

Into  arid  silence,  nightward  seeking. 

Long  had  it  flown,  long  before  me 
Over  the  sad  ocean,  over  the  ruins 
Of  many  a  yesterday.  .  .  . 

I  stood 

In  mute  reverence 

At  that  burial,  by  waters  receding, 

Under  the  passing  stars. 


[62] 


AFTER   THE    DAY 


Domesday 

WHEREUPON  a  flame 
Engulfed  them, 
And  our  land 
Of  long  enchantment 
Crumbled  under  fire 
Terrific  from  retaliatory  suns. 

In  torrid  vapors 

Broiled    the    seas    and    rivers    of    an    outcast 
world.  .  .  . 

Crawled  they,  rising  like  ebullient  serpents, 
Seething,    commingling,   merging   moonward, 
Leaping  of  red  tongues,  licking  the  spheres  — 
Writhing  perilously  on  high; 
Then  rushed  they  down,  in  final  cataracts, 
To  the  last,  phantasmagoric  Abyss. 

All  pulseless  were  the  tides, 
And  tottering  to  silence 
Every  avatar  of  Light : 

[63] 


AFTER   THE    DAY 

The  welkin  had  no  cloud, 
No  morn  its  dew  • — 

No  tree  found  leaf 
And  verdure  was  refused, 
And  every  bloom  died  unsought 
On  the  sedge,  and  bough,  and  vine. 

All  heaven  was  abandoned; 

The  winds, 

Once  many  voiced,  continuous,  and  fair 

Were  fallen  at  hush  — 

Oceans  ceased  to  stir, 

And  stagnant  they  lolled 

Untremulous  against  the  shores  of  Night. 

Only  a  laughter,  infinite  and  wild, 
Rang  from  the  nocturnal  peaks  of  Chaos. 

A  laughter, 

Sardonic  and  convulsed 

With  all  the  mad  hyprocrisies  of  Time  r— 

Rolling  from  no  special  height,  nor  plain, 
Dismal,  discorporate,  wailing 
Ribald  at  the  nothingness  of  Doom. 

[64] 


AFTER   THE    DAY 

There  was  no  use  for  symphonies,  and  such, 
Nor  letters,  nor  the  protoplasmic  scheme 
Of  anything  beneath  the  cindered  stars. 

What  with  wild  wars 
And  devastated  Hope 
The  evidence  of  Man 
Had  burned  away; 

Contestless,  ruined,  insensate 
Was  Creation ; 

Without  our  strange  posterity  — 
And  impotent,  and  cold. 

The  mirage  of  Life 

Had  been,  but  was  no  more. 

A  fatal,  overwhelming  Dark 

Prevailed, 

And  in  the  dark,  that  Laughter! 


[65] 


AFTER   THE   DAY 


*  Amerongen  Castle 

PACING  the  garden 
Of  Amerongen  Castle, 
He  walks  continuously  — 
Up  and  down  the  graveled  pathways 
Of  the  grounds. 

Bowed  in  reflection, 

With  his  arms 

Clasped  behind  him ; 

Endless  is  his  promenade  — 

Walking  up  and  down  the  graveled  pathways 

Of  Amerongen  Castle. 

Peasants  go  clattering  along 

The  canal  banks, 

Down  the  verdant  dykes  and  dunes  of  Holland  - 

Laughing  a  great  deal  in  the  sun, 

Contented,  loquacious; 

But  on  the  far  side  of  the  wall 
There  is  a  man  who  does  not  laugh, 


*'  'Amerongen"   is  a  cryptic  word,  spelling  One  German.     Re 
arrange   the   letters,    and   see   for  yourself. 

[66] 


AFTER   THE    DAY 

Who  paces  only  the  gardens 
And  who  does  not  laugh. 

The  sun  goes  down 
And  the  moon  ascends, 
And  the  peasants 
Sing  on  the  levee  — 
On  the  silver  waters 
The  peasants  are  singing; 

But  on  the  far  side  of  the  wall 
There  is  a  man  who  does  not  sing, 
A  man  who  walks 

The  graveled  paths  of  Amerongen  — 
And  who  does  not  sing. 

Nothing  is  more  continuous,  incessant,  and  per 
sistent 

Than  his  walking  — 
Up  and  down,  up  and  down, 
From  this  gate,  on  to  that, 
From  one  wall  to  another. 

Never  will  the  thoughts  of  him 
Still  those  footsteps  for  a  moment, 
Nor  stay 
The  long  march  of  his  Conscience. 

[67] 


AFTER  THE   DAY 

And  as  he  paces 

It  is  like  a  tread 

On  the  dead  hearts  of  men  — 

Treading  with  each  step,  treading 

On  a  heart ! 

Bowed  in  reflection, 

With  his  arms 

Clasped  behind  him  — 

Over  his  brow  comes  a  chilling, 

Comes  a  throbbing,  so  continuous, 

So  incessant,  and  prolonged  — 

Up  and  down  the  graveled  pathways 

By  Amerongen  walls; 

There  are  many  hearts  to  pace  there, 
To  account  for,  to  absolve, 
On  the  Castle's  graveled  pathways 
By  Amerongen  walls.  .  .  . 

There  are  many  steps  to  pace, 
Ere  the  final  Step. 


[68] 


H 


AFTEE   THE   DAY 


The  Sniper 

E  told  me  this  yarn,  like  a  schoolboy, 
While  I  bandaged  his  hand  by  the  fire 


"Boches!    That's  what  they  were  — 

Five  of  us 

Took  their  dug-out  in  the  morning; 

The  fog 

Was  heavy  over  Chalons, 

It  wrapped  the  trenches  in  gray, 

Clung  to  the  wires,  and  dripped 

From  every  broken  tree.  .  . . 

We  heard  them  laughing, 

And  nobody  can  stand  that,  in  the  shivering 
dawn! 

Bind  the  gauze  tightly,  Sam, 
Never  mind  the  salve  — 

What's  a  thumb,  more  or  less? 
I  haven't  used  mine 
Since  I  was  a  baby; 

[69] 


AFTER   THE   DAY 

Aw,  stop  looking  so  seriously  — 
It's  a  little  thing! 

Crawling,  scarcely  breathing, 

Stopping,  continuing  under  the  entanglement  s- 

So!  Five  grenades  forward; 
Mud,  and  moans,  then  'Kamerad!' 

Twenty  of  'em,  Sam, 
Cringed  against  the  gunnies! 

It  was  easy  work,  we  thought, 
And  filed  away,  when  — 

Well . . .  what  could  I  use  it  for? 
Thumbs  up,  thumbs  down  — 
Ha!  ha!  I  guess  I  wasn't  made  to  be 
A  Vestal  Virgin! 

We  thought  we  had  'em  all, 

But  a  puff 

Came  over  the  clearing  — 

One  of  us 

Stumbled  forward  — 

Sudden  blood 

Bubbled  from  his  ears, 

And  the  sniper  .  .  .  had  scored! 

[70] 


AFTER   THE    DAY 

'Nevermind,  pal;  he'll  pay!1 
Again  the  puff,  and  a  pang 
Somewhere  shoulderward  — 
But  this  time  we  saw  his  rifle 
Gleam  against  the  ridge; 
Caught  a  glint  of  steel 
In  a  first,  faint  ray 
Of  the  sun! 

We 

Crouched,  and  waited. 

Bill's  helmet  on  the  end  of  a  stick 

Was  a  good  decoy  — 

The  fool  shot  twice,  then, 

Shells  gone,  and  frightened, 

He  stood  up,  raised  his  arms,  and  shouted 

As  those  had  done  whom  we  spared: 

'Kamerad!'  'Kamerad!' 

'Kamerad,  ~be  damned!'  said  Bill. 

So  we  pumped  the  full  contents 

Of  our  automatics  — 

Into  his  crumbling  chest,  into  his  rotten  heart! 

He  told  me  this  yarn,  like  a  schoolboy, 
While  I  bandaged  his  hand  by  the  fire. 

[71] 


AFTER   THE   DAY 


Passing  in  the  Sun 

TODAY 
I  saw  them  passing 
In  the  sun  — 
The  khakied  ranks 
And  regiments  of  War. 

I  saw 

An  urgent  multitude 
Of  friends,  and  the  faces 
Of  parents   anticipating  — 

I  saw 

Rejoicing,   hearted   women 

And  patient  tears 

Lo,  laughing  in  their  eyes.  .  .  . 

Today 

I  saw  them  passing 

In  the  sun  — 

The  moon  declining,  and  low  vestal  stars 

Beholden  also,   shone  glimmering 

[72] 


AFTER   THE   DAY 

Down  the  flower-flung  streets 
Gold  garlanded,  and  silvern 
To  the  clatter  of  their  feet. 

Today 
I  saw  — 

Somewhere  he 
Was  marching.  .  .  . 

Dear   Christ! 
Though  the  night 
Be  nailed  forever 
To  my  cross  — 

Let  his  dawn 

Bleed  white  with  wings ! 


[73] 


AFTER   THE   DAY 


The  Aviator 

DUST,  in  clouds 
Envelop  their  machines, 
And  the  air  burns,   vibrating 
With  discordant  cries  — 

Orders 

From  directing  officers, 

Calls  to  linemen, 

Hurried  explanations,  a  last  shout 

To  the  machinist.     Final  commands  — 

And  then,  farewell! 

Over  the  low,  shuddering  grasses 

His  airplane  jerks,  jolting 

To  the  utmost  endurance. 

He  grips  the  wheel,  plunging  headlong. 

Suddenly  a  wind 

Lifts  under  the  solitary  man 

And  lo, 

He  is  flying! 

[74] 


AFTER   THE    DAY 

On  the  wide  sward 

Others  are  starting,  and  the  sky 

Reverberates  with  throbbing  hearts, 

With  those  strange,  mechanical  devices 

Beating  on,  and  on,  while  their  iron  bosoms 

Heave  and  swell  from  the  tumult 

Of  a  carbureted  soul.  .  .  . 

Presently,  the  mists  foregather 
Coming  between.     Gray  waters 
Roll  far  beneath  — 
All  on  the  field,  moments  later 
Become  gnats,  and  disappear. 

From  a  distance,  the  clutter  of  his  companions 
Sounds  to  him  through  cool  spaces; 
Soon  the  song  of  their  metallic  throats 
Merges  into  whispering  — 
And  is  heard  no  more. 

Life  itself,  is  such  a  coursing 
On  lanes  of  azure  — 
And  we  are  all 
Solitary  aviators! 

Only,  in  this  world-long  race 
One  after  another 

[75] 


AFTER   THE   DAY 

Is  outdistanced 

By  an  ultimate  few 

Who  are  themselves  deserted 

In  the  final  stretch  — 

By  one 

Who  travels  alone. 

Long  ago  they  left  him, 

The  birdmen  careening  earthward  — 

Onward  he  drives,  feathering 
Through  an  icy,  dim  atmosphere. 

Into  the  farthest  ocean,  shot  by  arrows 
Of  deepening  shadow 
Falls  the  wounded  sun. 

Illimitable  night 

In  mystery  and  silence, 

Closes  around  him  — 

Onward  he  goes,  onward,  onward. 


[76] 


AFTER   THE    DAY 


Outriders  of  the  Night 

COURSING  the  roads  at  dayfall, 
In  the  midmost  dusk  they  pass  — 
The  outriders  of  the  Night. 

I  have  seen  them, 

If  you  ask  me  — 

From  the  gray  heights  of  Vimy  Ridge 

I  have  seen  them 

Riding  in  the  dawn, 

And  in  the  bleak  immensities  of  Dark. 

My  dreams 

Are  fraught  with  spectral  images  — 

I  see  old  citadels,  and  gates 

Of  massive  bronze  unopened  save  to  Kings; 

Whereat  comes  One 

According  to  the  stars  • — 

And  lo,  the  locks,  the  idle  bolts  of  Ages 

Fall  asunder  in  the  gloom! 

[77] 


AFTER   THE   DAY 

Who  rides  now, 

Those  ancient  lanes  of  France? 

Who  strides  the  old,  accustomed  leagues 

With  dim  cavalry,  betimes, 

Who  leads  the  soldiery  of  other  wars  • — 

Whose  whispers 

Mingle  in  the  day's  late  winds, 

Whose  armor  is  of  shadow,  whose  eyes 

Are  glowless  in  the  evening's  enterprise? 

She  has  entered  Orleans, 

Mounted,  at  the  head  of  many  horsemen,   she 
enters.  .  .  . 

It  is  vespered  twilight, 

And  the  bells 

Of  phantom  arches  toll; 

They  draw  rein  before  the  cathedral, 

Before  those  demolished  walls  : — 

That  ruined  pile 

Touched  by  no  glint  of  sun, 

Nor  any  ray 

Prevailing  its  lost  corridors.  .  .  . 


For  a  long  time 
They  remain  — 


[78] 


AFTER   THE    DAY 

While  the  shades 
Lengthen,  creep  up,  up, 
With  ghostly  hands 
Entreating  some  reprisal 
For  the  dead! 

I  have  heard  their  hoof-beats 
In  the  silent,  moon-dim  valleys ; 
I  have  heard  their  chargers  breathing  .  .  .  drink 
ing  slowly  .  .  . 
By  the  cool  waters  of  the  Meuse. 

I  have  seen  them 

Fleeing  northward 

From  the  Somme,  from  the  Marne  — 

And  the  peasants  at  Ypres 

Know  them  well, 

The  outriders  of  the  Night ! 

Those  who  dwell 

In  gray  huts 

By  the  sea  < — 

Have  felt  the   presence 

Of  these  tireless  ones; 

The  fisherfolk  at  Calais 

Will  gather  round  you,  and  tell 

[79] 


AFTER   THE    DAY 

How  the  dunes  are  forever  murmuring  of  them, 
And  the  airs,  low-blowing  shoreward. 

Toilers  of  the  nets,  and  lighthouse  guards 
Will  speak  of  that  darkest  hour 
When  Paris  was  at  prayer- — 
And   what   they   heard,   borne   on   the   sudden 
wind.  .  .  . 

Some  call  them  the  " angels"  of  the  Marne 

And  some  are  mute,  and  there  are  others 

With  a  fine  glint  in  their  eyes  — 

As  if  they,  too, 

Had  seen  sights,  stranger  than  the  gift  of  words 

Will  ever  bring  to  men. 

Coursing  the  roads  at  dayfall 
In  the  midmost  dusk  they  pass  — 
The  outriders  of  the  Night. 


[80] 


AFTER   THE    DAY 


Le  Strynge 

MINISTER,  grimacing, 
*J      Laughing  in  the  night, 
You,  on  the  balustrade  of  Notre  Dame 
Leering  over  the  gargoyles, 
From  the  parapet  and  eminence  of  Faith! 

You,  0  faithless  One ! 

Believing  not,  and  brooding 

With  quaint  mendacity 

Over  the  lights,  and  shades, 

Over  the  pleasures,  and  the  pain  of  Paris. 

Long  have  I  regarded  you,  Strynge ! 

A  pagan 

On  the  edifice  of  Christ; 

Unsought,  unseeking  — 

Mocking  the  years,  and  the  tears  of  us ! 

There  is  a  strange,  lack  lustre  in  your  eyes 
A  cold,  forboding  cynicism 
On  your  grotesque  lips. 

[81] 


AFTER   THE    DAY 

In  their  shadow 

What  crawling  minions  pass, 

Below  you,  pass  in  and  out  of  the  Church; 

Always  crossing  your  shadow, 

Stepping  into  it,  through  it,  out  of  it,  and  on. 

Always  below  you,  blots  of  men 

In  your  shadow!    Below 

The  strange,  lack  lustre  in  your  eyes  — 

And  the  cynicism 

On  your  grotesque  lips. 

Long  have  I  regarded  you,  Strynge ! 

Unsought,  unseeking  — 

Mocking  the  years,  and  the  tears  of  us. 

Are  you  not  a  pagan 
On  the  edifice  of  Christ  ? 

Are  you  waiting  f 


[82] 


AFTER   THE    DAY 


Anarchy 

I  SAW  the  statue  of  Liberty 
Looming  against  New  York. 

I  was  a  son  of  the  plains, 
I  believed  in  prophecies  — 

And  mine  eyes  brimmed 

As  the  visions  faded, 

As  our  transport 

Cleaved  the  waters  of  the  wide  Atlantic. 

I  am  returning 

And  there  it  is  again, 

From  my  crutches  I  observe  it  — 

Colossal,  strange,  and  menacing; 

Alas,  is  it  Liberty? 

I  see  a  wanton,  wild  hag  leering  there  — 
Gaunt  of  figure,  shrunken  to  despair, 
And  draped  in  the  old  habiliments  of  Crime. 

[83] 


AFTER   THE    DAY 

From  the  drear  sockets 

Of  her  eyes 

Glare  the  lamps  of  civilized  Revolt, 

Within  the  pent  clutch  of  her  hand 

Smolders  a  bomb.  .  .  . 

See  that  long,  emaciated  arm 

Uplifted  through  the  gloom, 

And  the  torch 

Flaring  its  lurid  challenge  to  the  sky ! 


[84] 


AFTER   THE   DAY 


Post  Mortem 

I  AM  become  an  inmate 
Of  man 's  ancient  habitude ! 
Dead,  with  the  aid  of  Krupp  • — 
And  a  pale  subaltern  named  Schnitzler. 

Maddened  by  the  sting  of  his  rifle, 
I  flung  my  tent-ax  deep  in  his  chest.  . 
But  an  automatic  had  something  to  say, 
So  I  am  here. 

Dead !     And  the  stars  are  sentinels, 
Always  constant,  never  failing, 
Hovering  ever,  ever  gleaming 
Over  my  stark  remains! 

My  teeth  .  .  .  only  my  teeth 

Gleam  back  at  them 

From  the  wide,  Somme  prairie. 


[85] 


AFTER   THE    DAY 


Court  Martial 

(Guilty) 

NO  one  in  the  regiment 
Regards  me  as  a  deserter  — 
But  you  know  otherwise, 
My  lonely  one! 

I  left  you  lately 
For  the  love  of  War, 
Honor  became  my  mistress 
And  a  battlefield  was  our  bed. 

I  have  been  promoted  for  loyal  conduct, 

And  no  one  knows 

Nor  thinks,  nor  cares 

For  the  broken  camp,  and  the  pledge  we  plighted 

Under  the  vines  at  home! 


[86] 


AFTER  THE   DAY 


Coup  d'Etat 

PEACE!    Ah,  there's  a  word! 
Now  tell  me,  you  who  juggle: 
Have  those  nimble  necromancers  at  Versailles 
Made  it  a  just  peace, 
Or  just  peace  ?  § 

This  is  no  trick,  I  assure  you; 

It's  diplomacy! 

And  by  that  you  may  see 

How  a  word  divides 

The  false  aim  from  the  true. 

Yet  in  such  difference 
Lies  our  destiny. 


[87] 


AFTER   THE   DAY 


De  Profundis 

\HE  world  expected  so  much  of  me, 

That  in  desperate  attempts 
To  forget, 

My  heart  was  pierced 
And  disconsolate, 
My  soul  fled  into  the  Night. 

The  world  expected  so  much  of  me, 

And  insisted 

For  so  many  years, 

That  from  urgent  endeavor 

My  lids  have  drooped  — 

So  now  I  lie  in  the  dust. 


[88] 


AFTER   THE    DAY 


The  Great  War 

Prologue : 

TELL  you  the  story 
Of  the  Great  War  ? 

Be  sure,  my  friends, 
It  is  no  easy  task  — 
In  so  brief  time, 
In  such  confining  space. 

Much  may  pass  untold, 
Yet  grant  me  leave! 

A  shot 

Was  fired  one  day 

At  Sarajevo,  and  I  would  tell  .you 

How  it  wounded  half  the  world  — 

If  I  but  may: 

1914 

June  28. 

The  Archduke  Francis  Ferdinand  of  Aus 
tria 

[89] 


AFTER   THE   DAY 

Is  assassinated  on  this  date, 
Which  disposes  of  a  successor 
To  the  throne  of  Karl. 

July  5 

The  Crown  Council  of  Germany 
Meets  at  Potsdam 
And  decides  on  war. 

July  28 

Austria  declares  war 
On  Serbia. 

August  1. 

Germany  declares  war  on  Russia 
And  invades  Luxemburg 
And  Belgium. 

August  3. 

Germany  declares  war  on  France. 

August  4. 

Great  Britain  declares  war  on  Germany. 

August  25. 

Germans  destroy  Louvain, 
And  massacre  the  inhabitants. 

[90] 


AFTER   THE    DAY 

September  1. 

German  troops  reach  the  outskirts 
Of  Paris. 

September  6. 

The  battle  of  the  Marne 

Is  fought  in  which  the  French 

Force  the  Germans 

To  retreat  to  the  Aisne  River. 

December  24. 

The  first  German  air  raid 
Is  made  on  England. 

1915 

May  7. 

The  Lusitania  is  torpedoed 
By  a  German  submarine. 

May  23. 

Italy  declares  war  on  Austria. 

August  20. 

Italy  declares  war  on  Turkey. 

October  12. 

Edith  Cavell  is  shot 

By  Germans  in  Brussells. 

[91] 


AFTER   THE    DAY 

1916 

February  21. 

The  German  attacks  on  Verdun  begin. 

"They  shall  not  pass!" — Petain. 

April  19. 

An  American  ultimatum 
Is  sent  to  Germany, 
Threatening  to  break  off  relations 
Unless  American  ships 
Go  unmolested. 

May  31. 

The  Germans  are  defeated 
In  a  naval  battle  off  Jutland. 

August  27. 

Roumania  declares  war  on  Germany. 

August  2.8. 

Italy  declares  war  on  Germany. 

1917 

January  31. 

Germany  announces 
Ruthless  submarine  warfare. 

[92] 


AFTER   THE    DAY 

February  3. 

The  United  States 

Breaks  off  diplomatic  relations 

With  Germany. 

April  6. 

The  United  States 
Declares  war  on  Germany. 
"Make  the  world  safe  for  Democracy!" 

• — Wilson. 

June  26. 

The  first  American  troops 
Land  in  France. 

"Lafayette,  we  are  here!" — Pershing. 

June  29. 

Greece  declares  war  on  Germany. 

December  9. 

Jerusalem  is  captured 
By  the  British. 
"The  law  of  Force 
Must  yield  to  the  force  of  Law!" — Allenby. 

[93] 


AFTER   THE    DAY 

1918 
March  3. 

The  Brest-Litovsk  Treaty. 

"Germany  at  her  worst!"— Haig. 

March  21. 

The  great  German   Offensive  begins. 

"In  Paris  by  the  first  of  April!" 
— Hindenburg. 

April  14. 

General  Foch  is  appointed  commander-m- 

chief 
Of  the  Allied  Armies. 

May  27 

The  last  great  German  drive 

Is  begun  on  Paris. 

They  reach  the  Marne  again. 

June  6. 

The  American  marines 
Smash  back  at  Chateau  Thierry 
Marking  the  turning  point 
Of  the  war. 

[94] 


AFTER  THE   DAY 

June  7. 

General  Omar  Bundy 
An  American  commander, 
Refuses  the  French  order 
To  retreat. 

June  23. 

The  Italians 
Drive  the  Austrians 
Back  from  their  lines 
To  a  flight  across  the  Piave 
With  losses  totaling  one  hundred  fifty  thou 
sand  soldiers. 

July  12. 

French  and  American  forces 
Break  the  German  Offensive 
North  of  Cantigny. 

July  18. 

Marshal  Foch 

Begins  his  great  counter-attack. 

August  6. 

German  "75-mile"  guns 
Kill  civilians  in  Paris. 

[95] 


AFTER   THE    DAY 

August  25. 

British  battalions 

Cross  the  Hindenburg  line 

North  of  the  Searpe. 

September  2. 

The  United  States 

Recognizes  the  Checho-Slovak  Nation, 

September  12. 

The  First  American  Army 
Takes  fifteen  thousand  prisoners 
At  St.  Mihiel  salient. 

September  22. 
British  forces 

Trap  the  entire  Turkish  Army 
In  Palestine. 

September  30. 

Bulgaria  lays  down  arms. 

October  18. 

The  Germans  are  driven  back 
From  the  Belgian  Coast, 

[96] 


AFTER   THE   DAY 

October  24. 

The  troops  of  Italy 

Launch  a  victorious  offensive. 

Against  Austria. 

October  30. 

Turkey  surrenders. 

November  3. 

Austria  surrenders. 

November  7. 

General  Pershing 

Leads  an  American  division 

To  the  capture  of  Sedan. 

November  9. 

The  Kaiser  of  Germany 

Abdicates  and  departs  for  Holland. 

November  11. 

Germany  surrenders 
To  an  Allied  Armistice. 


[97] 


Miscellaneous 


AFTER   THE   DAY 


I  Saw  a  Dead  Man 

I  SAW  a  dead  man  in  the  night, 
His  body  stark,  his  visage  damp 
With  chilling  dews ;  I  saw  his  hands 
That  bore  a  rifle  rigid  quite, 

And  medals  on  his  chest,  the  lamp 
Of  Heaven  traced  by  lunar  strands. 

I  saw  a  dead  man  in  the  night, 

His  blackened  jowls,  his  sunken  eyes, 
The  blood-clots  on  his  matted  hair. 

I  saw  his  uniform ;  the  light 

Of  outraged  stars  gleamed  with  surmise 
Against  his  teeth,  against  his  stare. 

I  saw  a  dead  man  in  the  night, 

His  pallid  silence,  and  the  cold 
Of  lifelessness  creep  over  him ; 

I  saw  his  sabre,  and  the  slight 

Wound  mine  had  made.     I  saw  unfold 
The  wings  of  Death  to  cover  him. 

[100] 


AFTER   THE    BAY 

I  saw  a  dead  man  in  the  night, 

Whose  spirit  long  departed  made 
Of  human  semblance  nothingness ; 

I  saw  his  shadow,  and  the  might 

Of  untold  comrades  marching,  fade 
From  earth  to  God.     Ah,  Life  were  less! 


[101] 


AFTER   THE   DAY 


On  Duty 

I   HEARD  the  tread  o'  soldier  feet 
On  withered  leaves,  an'  dry. 
"Halt,  an'  give  the  Countersign  — 

Who  goes  there?"  hollers  I. 
"British  Ambulance  Corps!" 

Was  the  Sergeant's  prompt  reply. 

' '  Pass,  British  Ambulance  Corps ! ' ' 
An'  "All  is  well!"  says  I; 

So  shoulderin'  me  gun,  I  watched 
The  Tommies  marchin'  by. 

Again  the  tread  o'  soldier  feet 

That  night  (the  moon  was  high)  — 

"Halt,  an'  give  the  Countersign, 
"Who  goes  there?"  hollers  I. 

"French  Ambulance  Corps!" 

Was  the  Sergeant's  prompt  reply. 

* '  Pass,  French  Ambulance  Corps ! ' ' 
An'  "All  is  well!"  says  I; 

[102] 


AFTER   THE   DAY 

So  shoulderin'  me  gun,  I  watched 
The  Poilus  marchin '  by. 

I've  told  ye  wat  the  Sergeants  said, 
An '  my  woids  wat  were  mine  — 

(I  follows  post-instructions,  an' 
I  never  miss  a  line ! ) 

Along  th'  Wypers  road  at  night 
The  shells  was  burstin ',  say  — 

(I  seen  more  killed  from  dark  to  dawn 
Than  ever  died  by  day ! ) 

An  ups  an'  down  the  Avenoo 
The  stretcher-bearers  passed, 

From  dawn  to  dark,  and  dark  to  dawn 
Wid  wounded,  dead,  an'  gassed. 

"Mon  Dieu!"  I  thinks  the  Commandmant 

Would  say,  an'  so  did  I, 
When,  once  again,  the  tread  o'  feet 

On  withered  leaves,  an'  dry. 

' '  Halt,  an '  give  the  Countersign  — 
4 'Who  goes  there?"  hollers  I. 

"None  of  your  damn  business!" 
Was  the  Sergeant's  prompt  reply. 

[103] 


AFTER   THE   DAY 

"Pass,  American  Ambulance  Corps!" 
An'  "All  is  well!"  says  I; 

So  shoulderin'  me  gun,  I  watched 
The  Yankees  marchin'  by! 


[104] 


AFTER   THE    DAY 


In  a  Belgian  Prison 

THIS  is  that  dread  hour 
Of  the  rising  moon, 
Four  thund'rous  years  ago  — 
A  'night  in  June. 

Here,  where  the  lurking  twilight  creeps 

Through  garden  ferns, 
And  shadows  clasp  ghost-fingers  on 

The  ivyed  urns; 

Here,  where  a  festive  Belgian  sings 

His  joyous  lay, 
And  lovers'  hearts  beat  to  the  drums 

The  Allies  play  — 

Here,  I  forever  damned  my  soul : 

O'er  fields  of  dire 
Unhallowed  troops  I  flew,  a  Spy 

With  word  to  fire ! 

This  is  that  dread  hour 

Of  the  rising  moon, 
Four  thund'rous  years  ago  — 

A  night  in  June. 

[  105  ] 


AFTER   THE    DAY 


In  the  Shadows 

IT  stands,  a  dark  and  melancholy  tree 
Leaf-lorn  beside  the  sorrow  of  that  land; 
Somewhere    against    a    gray,    enshrouded 

strand 

Echo  nocturnes  sighing  from  the  sea 
Of  days  that  pass;  and  in  far  Normandy 

Fair  winds  have   died   on  grieving  drifts 

of  sand  — 
Somewhere  in  Flanders  there's  a  shadowed 

Hand, 
Somewhere  in  France,  a  broken  fleur-de-lis! 

0  night  of  Nations !    When  men 's  voices  leap 
Athwart  Titanic  gulfs,  and  Tyrant  power 

Hath  rolled  away  like  thunder  from  the  Deep 
What  cry  shall  rise  in  that  wide,  wondrous 
hour: 

Behold,  against  the  sky  for  all  to  see  — 
A  lonely  crucifix  on  Cavalry! 


[106] 


AFTER   THE    DAY 


A  Cashmere  Song 

OSAMAR!  Sing  to  me  of  swans  at  eve 
And  sleeping   orchids  where   the   twi 
light  falls 

On  cadenced  water,  murmuring  at  dusk 
A  requiem  beside  the  Palace  walls  — 

How  in  these  dark  and  soundless  gardens  strayed 
Two   mystic   friends   discoursing   on   their 

loves 

At  sundown,  while  an  amber,  crescent  moon 
Climbed     starward    o'er    the    Maharaja's 
groves! 

1  ( One  was  a  King,  who  secretly  had  yearned 

Long  years  for  that  oft  promised  by  the 
Rose, 

And  one  a  Prince  of  Yesterday  who  came 

From  rivers  where  the  Scarlet  Poppy  blows. 

"0  King,  in  sanguine  conquest  I  have  tried 
By  feat  of  Battle,  and  the  glint  of  swords 

[107] 


AFTER   THE   DAY 

To  vanquish  eager  armies  of  thy  foes  — 

To  humble  to  thy  knee,  the  foreign  Lords ! 

"  'My  Prince,'  the  King  replied,  Hhou  speakest 
well, 

Yet  it  is  vain.  The  bloom  of  Hope  is  past  — 
A  mighty  wind  hath  smote  the  tree  of  Eld 

And  lo,  its  leaves  lie  scattered  in  the  blast ! 

"  'From  out  the  West,  beyond  engulfing  seas, 
Bronze  legions  plunge  undaunted,  and  no 

dread 
Nor  any  horror  quells  their  clamoring : 

0  Allah!      Peace  be  with  them!      War  is 
dead.  .  .  .' 

"No  word  was  uttered  more.    The  cypress  paths 
A  deep,  sequestered  whispering  renewed; 

Whereat  they  vanished,  and  the  voiceless  gloom 
Mantled  again  that  ancient  solitude. 

"What  dust  cries  to  the  years!  Those  Palace 
walls 

Have  crumbled  into  silence  and  decay ; 
No  swans  at  twilight  float  among  the  reeds  — 

And     orchids,    poppies,     all    have    blown 


away! 


[108] 


AFTER   THE   DAY 

"Both  King  and  Prince  in  closing  mists  have 

passed 
Along  the  shadowed  corridor  of  dreams  . .  . " 

0  Samar!   Thou  art  bathed  in  dawning  light  — 
Sing  of  a  sorrow  ~by  forgotten  streams! 


[109] 


YB   12289 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CAUFORN1A  LIBRARY 


